


Slow Progress

by SnowyWolff



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Background Prumano, Dad!Francis, Found Family, Just So Much Tension, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Only For Them To Bite You In The Ass Later, RPG Fantasy, Running away from your problems, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:40:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24075331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowyWolff/pseuds/SnowyWolff
Summary: Francis is the leader of a rather dysfunctional adventure party. Amid dungeon exploring, mission clearing and overall questing, he is desperately trying to keep the peace now that his former teenage sweetheart has joined his ragtag group of runaway strays.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia), Prussia/South Italy (Hetalia)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 50





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dewy_Peach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dewy_Peach/gifts).



> Over a year ago, Tao and I had the brilliant idea to do a fic exchange that started as a drabble exchange and then went completely off the roads for us both. Our initial plan was some cheesy fantasy, which it still kinda is, but really, for me, became this weird mix of FE:Awakening in terms of RPG elements and just throwing a party of basically strangers together and adding a dash of found family dynamics for wholesomeness.
> 
> Anyway, this became very long and deviated from just fruk dealing with dumb party shenanigans to Francis being the Dad of the Party(tm), keeping everyone together while trying to overcome his and Arthur’s relationship issues, and some prumano on the side because I have no self control. 
> 
> It's ten chapters in total and I hope to post one every other day if I don't forget bc time has become absolutely meaningless to me in the current circumstances fkjhgfhgjk

Francis wipes his brow tiredly.

They have almost cleared the dungeon by then, just two more rooms, but Francis feels the exhaustion run through his entire party. Antonio leans heavily on his axe, Gilbert has sat down with Ludwig, Kiku’s arms are shaking, even Lovino and his little brother stand quietly. And Arthur—

Arthur has slowly inched closer to Francis. For a moment, Francis expects him to bump their shoulders together, but that comes too close to what had been, once upon a time, so Arthur keeps a respectable distance.

“Can we talk?” he asks quietly.

“About what?” Francis hadn’t meant to snap, but doesn’t apologize either as Arthur shuffles his feet. “You’ve said enough, I think.”

Arthur eyes Lovino and Feliciano warily. They really aren’t paying attention to anyone for once, though Lovino catches Gilbert’s passing glance with a scowl. How neither has run the other through with a sword yet is a bet still running between everyone else.

“Don’t you want an explanation?” Arthur asks.

“You made yourself abundantly clear that night.” Francis shrugs indifferently. As if the words don’t still sting.

Arthur wearily wipes at the blood that trickles down his cheek. He opens his mouth, closes it again, then stares at the looted chest next to the wall.

“Say, hypothetically,”—And Francis wants to laugh bitterly at that, but something in Arthur’s tone prevents him from doing so—“that I hadn’t said those things, and we’d gone our separate ways anyway, and I, now, ask you if… if there is still a chance… for us—”

“But you did say those things,” Francis interjects. “So we can’t.”

Arthur clenches his jaw. It is a terrible habit, even more so as it usually devolves into him grinding his teeth. “I see.”

Francis frowns at him, thinking it terribly unfair of Arthur to react as such, but pauses when he catches those deep green eyes. So he sighs, frustrated. “If this is some sort of game you’re playing, please just stop. I’ve hurt enough over this.”

“It’s not a game,” Arthur says sharply.

“Really? It sure seems so.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It never is with you, no.” Francis gestures listlessly. He is too tired to be properly angry. “Honestly, Arthur, I don’t understand you, nor what you want.”

Arthur meets his eyes, brilliant and clear and honest. It is on the tip of his tongue, Francis sees, but never does get to hear.

Feliciano has meandered his way closer, smiling when Francis frowns at him. Arthur seems to struggle to take his eyes off of Francis, but when he turns to Feliciano, he stomps his foot in frustration and stalks off to Kiku.

Feliciano watches him leave with a tilt of his head, taking the space previously occupied by Arthur for himself, still smiling that infuriatingly innocent smile at Francis.

“Trouble in paradise?” he asks.

Francis balls his fist, but can’t find the energy to snap at the young thief. He shakes his head. “There is no paradise to speak of.”

“How bleak.” Feliciano sways back and forth on his feet. “Well, see it this way,”—he nods to where his brother is in another argument with Gilbert—“you could be them.”

Francis watches as Feliciano skips over to said argument to most likely pour oil onto the fire. The younger sibling seems to enjoy seeing Lovino riled up with a strange sort of glee, almost as if he is testing to see how much it would take until he truly snaps. Rather childishly, Francis thinks.

Really, Francis doesn’t want to know, but he worries for the party, for their necessary ability to work together, and as it stands right now, they are anything but harmonious. Something has to be done, though it will most likely take a miracle for any improvement to happen anytime soon.

Francis picks up his tome, dusting it off absently, wondering if there is a way for them to learn to trust each other. After all, when everyone is an outcast, no one is.


	2. II

Something is simmering. Bad feelings, distrust, anger.

They probably shouldn’t have entered this dungeon after only spending as little as a day on rest and resupplying, still tense and wired after their previous dungeon.

Francis clutches his tome, raising his hand as he mutters another spell that blasts the monstrous creatures back, Ludwig dodging in to slay them with his broadsword. Kiku stands at his back, tapping into Francis’ magic to amplify the range of his arrows, raining them down in large bursts of light.

The motions of battle are ingrained in him, spells and curses bubbling from the recesses of his mind to the tips of his fingers, magic coursing through his veins. Nothing could touch him when he reaches this high, this power. He is everything and nothing at all.

He can feel the magic swirl around him, filling the room, makes hearts beat, links them all together and all to life.

Arthur is behind him, fighting together with Antonio, the wide arch of his axe paving a path for Arthur to duck between and take advantage of.

He feels Gilbert on the other end of the room, working in unison with Lovino. Something in Francis’ mind reminds him how odd that is, but the dire situation would call for their collaboration.

And then there’s Feliciano. Francis has to search for him, and when he finds him, he startles when his magic is met with Feliciano’s. A quiet reassurance as the thief drops from a high ledge, taking down two of the larger monsters with his small poisoned daggers.

They clear out the room with surprising ease then, but the bubble of peace bursts the moment the last monster hits the floor.

It’s Antonio, snapping at Arthur. Francis misses the words, but he sees the snarl curling at Arthur’s lips.

The high of magic slowly ebbs away, and Francis feels infinitely tired, but he walks over to them anyway, glad for Kiku hovering next to him.

“…can’t do that!” Arthur says, his knuckles white as he grips his sword tightly.

“You’re blind, Arthur,” Antonio hisses. “Blind and naive.”

“Rich coming from you!”

“Guys,” Francis interjects tiredly, so used to any sort of glare directed at him to do much more than blink at their heated stares. “The boss is next.”

Arthur opens his mouth, but shuts it immediately after a look from Francis. Antonio glances between them, narrows his eyes momentarily, and mutters something Nimarion, shaking his head.

“Whatever,” Antonio sighs, waving his hand dismissively. “It's not my head that's going to roll.”

He walks away, and Kiku follows, speaking in hushed tones with him, drawing a laugh from Antonio like only he could, and Francis is left looking questioningly at Arthur, who, in turn, is looking anywhere but at Francis.

“Arthur,” he begins, but doesn't actually know where to take it. There's a million questions he could ask, probably should ask, but they dissipate like mist on his tongue.

The prickle at the back of his neck tells him everyone's watching, waiting. Anticipation brews, but Francis refuses to give into it. He doesn't want to fight. He doesn't want to hear any truth from Arthur.

Because it's the truth he fears. The truth that will rip apart the precarious stitching that keeps their party together.

Francis traces the pattern on his tome, then opens it, balancing the book on his arm as he touches the gash on Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur winces, staring at Francis in a strange mix of disbelief and utter relief.

Healing magic sings, and so does Francis as he chants, feeling the warmth, the strength, that comes with healing. He is absorbed by it, by the spell, the magic, and Arthur. Just for a small moment, it can be just them.

Francis takes a step back, wants to smile, but is too tired to try. Arthur is looking at him strangely now, his expression something unknown, but he mutters his thanks and shuffles away. Francis rubs his face, breathes out the magic, and turns to the others.

“Fifteen minutes,” he says, and everyone kind of collapses on the ground, rifling through bags, drinking water and regaining some stamina with little snacks.

Francis accepts Ludwig’s offering and munches lethargically, not quite wanting to eat but knowing he will need to regain as much strength as he can before the boss fight.

When they reorganize for the final fight, Francis switches places with Gilbert, wanting to keep an eye on Lovino while trying to keep his distance from Arthur. It's a little childish, but Francis has long since given up trying to rationalize with Arthur; if the man doesn't want to see reason, that is on him and Francis is tired trying.

Lovino glances back at him, those golden eyes too observant despite the mercenary’s aloof exterior. He runs a finger across the length of his knife thoughtfully.

“Troubled?” Lovino asks.

It startles Francis a little that he is the one to strike up conversation, but he sets his jaw stubbornly, unsure what Lovino’s intentions are.

“Why would you care if I was?” he asks, perhaps a little more sharply than he had intended.

Lovino doesn't react in any discernible manner at the tone, instead tapping the blunt side of his knife against Francis’ nose mockingly. “Nothing much, Mr. Party Leader.” He smiles, though it's cold and devoid of real emotion. “Some advice, though, _lovely_.” The use of one of Arthur’s endearments feels like a slap to the face, and he sees it reflected in Lovino’s eyes. Lovino leans closer, still smiling, eyes trained on Francis’ and coloured with brutal curiosity, like a predator about to hunt its prey. He whispers, “You might want to ask our lord here just why he's hanging out with a bunch of losers.”

Francis clenches his fists, refusing to look away as Lovino slowly falls back on his heels, casually. It's as if he has simply said something menial about the weather. As if he isn't deliberately seeding distrust like he doesn't have a care in the world.

A mercenary’s word means nothing unless money is involved, which is precisely why Francis worries.

There's only one way for Lovino to possibly know what Arthur’s true class is.

Francis gives the signal to enter the final room, anything to have those calculative eyes focus on something else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ever just want to write your faves as being morally ambiguous and give them the devious representation they sometimes deserve? Yeah me @ the italies


	3. III

Francis places three bronze coins on the bar, sliding them across the hard wood as the barmaid pours him three tankards of beer. He tries to smile at her, but her half-hearted attempt back at him tells him just how tired he must look.

Taking a tankard in each hand and precariously holding the third in between them, he shuffles back to a table in the corner, blissfully out of sight of the majority of the tavern. Their ragtag group sits around it, looking burnt and beat up.

The silence is taut and rigid, like a string ready to snap. Looking between the tense faces, Francis figures that it will be something inevitable. He sees it in the way Gilbert’s shoulders hunch, in the way Lovino plays with one of his smaller daggers, in the way Antonio’s lips are pulled thin, in the way Arthur radiates confrontation.

He slams down the tankards with more force than necessary, shoving two to Arthur and Kiku, the last still without a drink. Sliding into the bench beside Arthur, ignoring the way Arthur clutches his broken arm to his chest a little more tightly, he says, “Cheers to a successful clear.”

Surprisingly, it isn’t the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

Kiku is the first to raise his tankard, meeting Francis’ eyes with a strange kind of serenity, almost uncanny in the current situation. Antonio and, perhaps surprisingly, perhaps unsurprisingly, Feliciano joins him immediately.

Ludwig follows after a thoughtful pause, elbowing Gilbert with a grim kind of determination.

Gilbert huffs, shoulders lowering in stuttering motions, as if someone is slowly turning a crank. There’s a moment where he meets Lovino’s eyes, and something very odd happens.

Lovino lowers his knife, blinking almost owlishly at him. He leans forward and sticks his dagger into the table, the elaborate handle glinting in the low candlelight. There is something in his eyes too, something near-vulnerable, something reflected in Gilbert’s, but it’s locked away firmly as Lovino raises his tankard.

Francis feels Arthur looking at him, but refuses to give into the seemingly insatiable urge to look back. Instead, he raises his arm to clink his tankard to all the others. Arthur sighs beside him, the last to join their strange and inappropriate toast.

When they drink, it’s not nearly as strained a silence as it used to be.

Francis takes it as a win.

***

The night more or less continues in a strange, slightly tense peacefulness. Since Gilbert, Antonio and Arthur are intent on drinking themselves into a stupor, Francis has to be on babysitting duty.

Though, thankfully, through some miracle, the night has proceeded without fights or arguments so far. Antonio and Gilbert are just yelling their conversation across the small space of the table, Ludwig, Kiku and Feliciano have been chattering about nothing in particular, Arthur has been staring deeply into his beer, and Lovino had been so quiet that Francis forgot he’s even there until he announces his retreat to his room.

As Ludwig hauls Gilbert upstairs (who has drunkenly claimed five different stories as to why he is wanted by the Bitlevkan military), Kiku and Feliciano guide Antonio, and Francis has been left to deal with Arthur, who has been snoring for the past ten minutes.

“Honestly,” Francis mutters, wondering how to approach this. He jostles Arthur’s shoulder, gently at first, but a little less so as Arthur continues to snore.

Arthur finally rolls his head over to look at Francis blearily.

“Come on, Arthur. It’s time for bed,” Francis says, keeping his voice low.

Arthur continues to blink at him, eyebrows slowly pulling into a frown. Francis doesn’t have the patience for Arthur to figure out the meaning of his words, instead taking Arthur’s arm and, after finding no resistance, pulling it around his shoulder to drag him up onto his feet.

“Buh,” Arthur says.

“Don’t you dare throw up,” Francis replies, managing to manoeuvre them on a clear path to the stairs, nodding at the bartender on his way there.

“Francis,” Arthur slurs and his free hand manages to grasp onto Francis’ tunic, making Arthur tilt in front of him and obstructing Francis from putting Arthur to bed as soon as possible.

“Not now, Arthur,” Francis sighs, shifting Arthur as he eyes the staircase with trepidation. “Doesn’t a bed sound wonderful?”

Arthur makes a humming kind of noise and allows Francis to drag him upstairs, only coming close to falling back down once. Francis finds the room meant for him and attempts to drop Arthur on the bed, only to be taken down with him as Arthur continues to cling to him.

“Arthur—” Francis pushes himself up, only to freeze as Arthur cradles Francis’ face in that way he used to, ages ago, when what they had had been precious.

“Francis,” Arthur murmurs, his fingers trailing along his jaw.

For a moment, Francis has no idea what to do as he stares into Arthur’s hazy eyes. Then he sighs and gently takes Arthur’s hands away, giving them a quick squeeze as he pushes them against Arthur’s chest.

“Sleep, Arthur,” he says, brushing Arthur’s hair away from his eyes as he makes a distressed sound. He waits until Arthur’s eyes droop and close before getting up, glancing back from the doorway for a moment. “Goodnight,” he whispers as he closes the door and returns to his own room.


	4. IV

The itch to talk with Arthur becomes something unbearable. It drives Francis up the walls. But he just can't risk it. He's stuck between a rock and hard place and he doesn't know what to do.

Lovino’s advice—threat, really—still echoes in Francis’ mind. Interestingly, it hadn’t seemed as if Lovino is aware of how much Francis knows, though Lovino had also not pressed Francis into any sort of action. He had simply given a statement, a quiet warning as to why the mercenary is with them, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

Francis worries. He watches every turn in every fight, arranging things so as to avoid the slightest chance of confrontation in any way. Keep Antonio away from Arthur. Keep Lovino away from both Gilbert and Arthur. Keep himself away from Arthur, too. Really just keep Arthur with Kiku, Ludwig or Gilbert.

He’s so worried about Lovino that he forgets about the little brother until one evening, just as he’s about to get into bed for some much-needed rest, Antonio almost busts down the door. Vaguely, Francis catches “Feliciano” and “stole something” and “in deep trouble”, sighing as he finds his trousers and follows Antonio.

Outside there’s a massive man holding Feliciano by the scruff of his neck. Lovino is nowhere to be seen, but there’s Ludwig trying to negotiate with the man and Kiku standing a little off to the side, clearly trying to devise a way to reclaim Feliciano should words not work. Antonio slows as Francis steps up to Ludwig, lingering with Kiku as Francis plasters on some courage that he does not possess.

“What might be—” Francis begins, but the man interrupts him immediately, shaking Feliciano as he explains. Something about an ancient artifact, heaps of gold, gems of all shapes and sizes, an overall total that Feliciano couldn’t possibly carry on his own. Instead of pointing that out, however, Francis smiles.

Feliciano, at the very least, looks genuinely terrified as the man spews about torture and punishment, flinching with every shake.

“Well, sir,” Francis says when the man finally stops to breathe, looking eerily similar to their previous dungeon boss. “Forgive a young man for his slippery fingers. He sometimes forgets stealing outside of dungeons isn’t something we do.” He says this sharply, scolding, levelling Feliciano with a matching look.

Feliciano squeaks an apology, going slightly purple in the face as the man tightens his grip on his collar.

“I want justice,” the man growls.

“Money?”

“The police. Or I’ll snap his neck right here.”

Francis knows he will, too. He wrings his hands, wondering what spell could be useful. Nothing really comes to mind, but he feels Kiku shift to his left, the gentle touch of his magic a reassurance.

“I, well.” Francis makes a decision as he meets Feliciano’s eyes, and he’s struck just by how young he looks. “I can’t really let you do either.”

The man laughs, leaning forward to say something, but Francis doesn’t give him the chance, allowing a wave of magic, intensified by Kiku’s, to slam into the man. Off-balanced, he stumbles, and Kiku darts forward at the same time Ludwig does, the latter barrelling into the man while the former uses his bow to sweep the feet out from under him.

Francis had wrenched Feliciano away the moment he had seen an opening and Feliciano latches onto his chest with a desperation that startles him slightly. He presses a hand against the back of his neck, performing a quick calming spell as Feliciano hiccoughs.

Perhaps it’s best to take Feliciano inside now, Francis thinks, and gestures to Antonio, who has been lingering on the edges of the fight that Ludwig and Kiku have in the palms of their hands, wanting him to break it up as neatly as he could. Antonio’s eyes flicker to Feliciano, but he nods, cracking his knuckles as he, too, slams into the man.

It’s like moving a particularly drunk person, moving Feliciano inside, the thief clinging to him, legs unable to carry his weight. Hauling Feliciano up the stairs is a precarious ordeal, and Francis gladly deposits the man on his bed, thankful he had neglected to close the door earlier.

Feliciano evades his eye now, so Francis takes a moment to close the door and drag the heavy chair from the desk in front of Feliciano. He takes a seat and rubs his beard thoughtfully. He had meant to trim it in the morning, but he doubts he’ll have the chance to.

“Feliciano,” he says, watching how the thief’s shoulders tense, fingers bunching into his trousers. “Let’s talk.”

“There’s nothing—” Feliciano speaks tersely, but Francis clucks his tongue disapprovingly.

“There is. You are a member of this party, thus you will be held responsible the same way as the others.” Francis hasn’t had this conversation since Arthur, but where Arthur had been disdainful, Feliciano just seems upset. “I don’t feel like scolding you, and I think this encounter has made enough of an impression on you, but you aren’t a kid anymore. You know damn well that stealing outside of the dungeons is taboo.”

Feliciano has gone very, very still. Francis watches the slide of his eyebrows and, like a wash of cold water, Francis realizes something.

“Feliciano, how old are you?” Francis’ voice is tight, leaving no room for refusal, lies or argument.

For a moment, Francis feels terribly cold and old as Feliciano murmurs, “Sixteen.”

Francis has to stand, pacing around the room, aware of Feliciano’s terrified eyes following him. He stands at the window, the filthy glass obscuring the world except for the dim yellow pulses of the failing street lanterns.

“How old is Lovino?”

“Twenty-eight.” There’s defeat in Feliciano’s admission as he continues, “He’s been caring for me since my tenth. Since mom died.”

Francis stares at him incredulously. “Please tell me you haven’t been thieving since—”

“Oh no.” Feliciano stares wistfully at his feet. “We lived in a small apartment in Damteve. Lovino took small jobs from the nobles, just enough to keep us afloat without jeopardizing me. He doesn’t like me doing this any more than you.” Something about Feliciano’s demeanour hardens. “I just couldn’t depend on Lovino like that forever. He endangers his life for my livelihood and I’m supposed to just sit and wait? I couldn’t take it anymore. So I ran away first, but he found me in the guild. He was so angry, you don’t even know. He very reluctantly agreed to let me travel with him.”

Francis sits down again, rubbing his eyes as he sighs. It makes sense then, Lovino’s hostility. Even Lovino’s threats, as much as they carry the weight of spite, are but a thin barrier set between them and the world, to prevent people from coming too close. Francis suddenly feels as if he can understand the undecipherable expressions Lovino sometimes wears as he sees Feliciano growing closer to Kiku and Ludwig, the formerly youngest members of the party.

And from Damteve too, the largest metropolis on the continent, doing mercenary jobs for nobles.

“Tell me one last thing,” Francis says, feeling distant. It’s as if whatever Feliciano answers will hammer another nail into their shared coffin. “Was Lovino hired?”

Feliciano shifts uncomfortably. “Yes.” But he hastily adds, “He doesn’t want to though. I swear.”

“But he’s hired. He will have to kill.” No one escapes a contract, especially not those made by spiteful aristocratic fathers.

“Lovino is efficient. One of the best,” Feliciano says softly, pride seeping through. “If he truly wanted the money, he would’ve gone for it already.” He fidgets under Francis’ heavy stare, but meets his eyes resolutely then, severity lacing his words with a harsh edge. “You’ve kept me safe. To him, I know, it’s a debt.”

Francis wants so desperately to believe him. He really does. But he can’t rest easy on Feliciano’s words alone. “Where is Lovino?”

“Um. Not a clue, actually.” Feliciano scratches his head sheepishly, as if he normally always knows.

Francis sighs and rubs his temples. There is a knock at the door and Antonio asks whether they are there. Francis opens the door for them, quickly taking note of any injuries as Antonio, Kiku and Ludwig pile into the room.

Antonio smiles despite his bleeding lip and, thankfully, Ludwig and Kiku only look a little ruffled. Francis gestures for Antonio, picking up his tome to fix the damage, feeling too drained to drag the magic from himself.

He says, “Find the others. We leave before dawn breaks.”

Ludwig nods and leaves, closing the door behind him.

Kiku sits on the bed next to Feliciano, wearing something more stern than Francis could manage, as if he knows that Francis got derailed from scolding Feliciano properly. “You could have been seriously hurt, Feliciano. You were lucky we were there, but this is something that cannot happen again.”

Feliciano takes a deep breath. “Yes. I know. I’m really sorry. I wanted to be more helpful because I know we’re short on money and supplies.”

Kiku hums, softening slightly. “You are helpful, Feliciano. More than you think.” He smiles lightly. “Just don’t give us a scare like that again, please.”

Feliciano answers his smile a little hesitantly, but nods regardless, blushing slightly.

When Francis tells Antonio and Kiku to go ahead and pack their belongings, he turns to Feliciano thoughtfully.

“We will keep your age a secret for now,” he says. “I need to speak with your brother first. However,” he adds sternly, wiping the relief from Feliciano’s face instantly, “you’ll now have to be in the company of an adult at all times. You understand? You’re a minor and that means that as your party leader, I’m as much your legal guardian as your brother is.”

Feliciano nods, shuffling toward Francis with a hint of hesitation. Then, after a seemingly quick decision, he steps forward and hugs Francis.

It startles him, the familiarity unknown, and Francis almost fears a knife, battle instincts too ingrained, but then Feliciano mutters, “Thank you. I’m really sorry,” and Francis pats his back tiredly.

“Yes, all right.” He smiles as Feliciano draws back. “Let’s leave before the police is actually upon us.”

They walk outside where Ludwig has already collected the missing three, giving his brother a narrow kind of look that he hasn’t seen before. The younger sibling often shows exasperation toward Gilbert, but there is something in there that Francis doesn’t know how to unpack, so he doesn’t attempt to.

Lovino, Arthur and Gilbert all look rough, but there is a distinct difference between them. Arthur has the distinct sleeplessness that surrounds a restless sleeper, with bags underneath his eyes and a downturn of his lips as if to will the yawns away. Gilbert’s hair is ruffled, his clothes are crooked, and he smells of hard alcohol. Francis normally wouldn't have given it any mind had Gilbert not looked as if he had just been cheated out of a good fuck. And Lovino looks equally dishevelled, but his eyes are bloodshot, his fingers coiled around the hilt of his dagger, paranoia seeping into the manner in which his eyes dart around, deflating as he sees Feliciano walking toward him.

“What happened?” he asks, taking Feliciano’s arms tightly, too tightly by Feliciano’s wince. Francis sees now, how truly young Feliciano looks in comparison to Lovino, with his round cheeks of adolescence and his lankiness.

“A little incident,” Francis says airily. “Let's leave now and talk later, yes?”

Lovino narrows his eyes, noting the emphasis Francis put on _talk_ with a sneer. He searches Feliciano’s face for a moment, gives him a little shake, and gestures for Francis to take the lead in what could only be called a derisive way.

Francis sighs and feels the beginning of a headache beating against the confines of his brain. He knows he won’t have that conversation with Lovino just yet—not when he’s awake on the last dregs of consciousness. There will be a time and place, he hopes, but for now, they must simply gain as much distance between them and this town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk if this needs saying but please leave comments??? even though it's finished, i'd still love to hear your thoughts and reactions on every chapter??? i really appreciate knowing i'm not posting to the all-consuming void ;A;


	5. V

Francis opens the door, intend on asking Gilbert for his opinion on the quest giver from that morning, but falters, feeling just about every confused emotion a human could experience hit him in the head with a staff.

Gilbert is seated on the table, shirtless, hands resting on Lovino’s waist, kissing him slowly, in a way that is distinctly unhurried and carefree. Lovino, equally shirtless, stands between his legs, one hand resting on the back of Gilbert’s neck, the other hand trailing over his chest.

Francis traces the long scars that mark Lovino’s back, brain unable to grasp the situation, the way they look at each other as they draw apart just as slowly as the kiss had been holds something so intimate that Francis is suddenly aware of his intrusiveness.

He softly closes the door, retreating to his own room in a daze, wondering how the two people constantly at each other’s throat could have grown close enough to look at each other like that—not in raw passion or frustration, but in something that comes eerily close to affection.

He wonders why he can’t have that with Arthur, someone he has known since childhood. Why must they hide behind hypotheticals and maybes?

Curling up on his bed, the fresh linens remind him faintly of the past, of a time when he and Arthur had been friends, not “complicated”. When they had play-fought and shared ice creams, when they had grown lanky and began to explore, in dark closets and hidden nooks within the manor’s halls.

There’s a loud knock on the door, rousing him from his nostalgia, and there’s Gilbert, with a shirt this time, grinning at Francis as he sits himself next to him on the bed. Francis wonders fleetingly whether his cheerful mood could be credited to Lovino.

“Lutz said you were looking for me?” he asks, and Francis could sense in his voice the trepidation of Francis’ potential discovery.

“Oh, yes.” Francis sits up slowly, brushing his hair back, wincing at how greasy it feels. “About this morning. Do you think the man’s trustworthy?”

Gilbert puffs out a long breath, thinking it over carefully before he answers. “He seemed okay. I’d like to scout the cave first before we make any commitments, but I don’t think it’ll be like last time.”

Francis suppresses a shudder at the memory of that disaster, arm still smarting from where it had broken, though no one knows as he healed it quietly in the privacy of his room after. “We’ll discuss it tomorrow then.”

He expects Gilbert to leave, but he doesn’t, picking at the cuticles of his nails, brow furrowed in thought. Francis watches him quietly, waiting for the inevitable spill. As a party leader he has come to expect it now, taking on the emotional burden of his party members. It used to startle him a little when Antonio or Kiku, sometimes even Ludwig, would come to him for advice or just to air their thoughts, but now he’s used to it, appreciating that Feliciano now, too, comes to him to chat. Gilbert hasn’t before, not to talk seriously. It is always airy conversation, a distraction from what bothers him, but now Francis can feel him building up to something that has to come out.

What does startle him is the directness with which Gilbert addresses it.

“I’ve been sleeping with Lovino,” he says after meeting Francis’ eyes. He speaks soberly, honestly, eyebrows crinkled in worry, but not for Francis’ judgement. “I thought you should know.”

“I, uh, oh.” Francis blinks. He doesn’t know what else to say, but Gilbert seems to expect him to. When they both realize that that’s the extent of Francis’ eloquence, Gilbert clears his throat awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck, the embarrassment catching up to him.

“Yeah. It started out as just getting rid of our frustrations, you know,” Gilbert says, though Francis wishes he doesn’t. “And I don’t know what it is now, but it isn’t only that.”

Francis recalls their expressions, serious and calm at first glance, but tender and warm in their eyes, in their kiss and touch. He swallows the lump in his throat and elbows Gilbert teasingly. “How sly. And here I knew of nothing.”

Gilbert blushes then. It stains his cheeks like the blood normally does his clothing. He averts his eyes, jiggles his legs nervously. “You’re not going to say we shouldn’t?”

“Is that what you want me to say? That you can’t?”

“He’s a mercenary. Everyone knows you don’t trust him.”

Francis winces, brushing his hair to cover it up under a mantel of nonchalance. It reflects on him, the problem of Lovino. Lovino and Arthur, always circling back to them, all the damn problems of this party. Them and Francis, too. A trio of imminent disaster.

But it isn’t about Lovino, the Mercenary, right now. It’s about Lovino, a man for whom Gilbert cares, at least more than he’s letting on. It’s about Gilbert being unable to face his feelings, of not wanting to face his feelings, and coming to Francis to have a third party excuse him from having them. 

Too bad Francis is a romantic, even if his own romantic life has come to a cliff side, so he scoffs. “You’re an adult. I’m not going to make your life choices for you.”

Gilbert stares at him, confused. It hurts Francis’ pride a little, to see the lack of trust they have in _him_. What kind of leader is he if his party members gaze at him with doubt, with distrust and scepticism?

“You don’t mind?” he asks, carefully masking his voice to neutrality.

“As long as you two keep it in your pants during missions I couldn’t care less what you two do together. I’d much prefer you two fucking than having swords at each other’s throat every other day.” Francis says it airily, even if he feels a rock settle in his stomach. He smiles at Gilbert regardless because there is importance in this, in this communication; he doesn’t want to lose it over his own feelings on the matter. “I appreciate you telling me, though. Thank you.”

Gilbert’s gone even more red, staring down at his feet intently. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Anything, Gilbert.” Francis folds his hands in his lap.

“What did you see when you walked in on us just now?”

Francis stares at him. Gilbert gazes back calmly, openly, not a trace of harshness in his eyes. If anything, he is curious. And Francis realizes what Gilbert wants to know: whether he’s imagining something being there when there is nothing.

Sighing, Francis pats Gilbert’s knee. “You should ask Lovino.”

Gilbert groans. “You make it sound easy.”

“I do.” And it is, he realizes. Talking has never been the issue, but Francis cowardice has been. Hearing the truth from Lovino means facing a past he doesn’t want to deal with, but it is such an absolute necessity, for everyone’s sake—for Arthur’s sake.

Francis smiles however, adding, “If you’re worried about your feelings, breathe first. Neither of you is obligated to them, and neither of you has to act on them right away. Love is fickle, and varies from person to person, and it should be good, for the both of you.” He thinks of Arthur, wonders if he could follow his own words sometime, too. “There’s no rush.”

There’s a rustle by the door, and Francis ignores it, though it’s not hard to guess Lovino has finally had enough of listening in. He waits a beat or two and continuous quietly, “Can you promise me one thing, Gilbert?” After a hesitant nod, Francis says, “Promise me to be careful. Not because of who Lovino is, but because emotions are a powerful thing. There will be a moment, I promise, where you will know. You will know and you will either move forward or you won’t.”

Gilbert doesn’t respond for a long moment, but when he does, it draws all the breath from Francis’ lungs. “Is that what happened between you and Arthur? You didn’t move forward?”

Francis shakes his head, suddenly infinitely tired. “Yes and no. But that’s neither here nor there.”

Thankfully, Gilbert takes the answer for what it is and stands up. Before he leaves, he surprises Francis with a genuine, “Thank you, Francis. For what it’s worth, I think you’re probably the best leader for this dysfunctional party.” He grins, and Francis tries to return it, even if he knows the confusion of the statement bleeds into it abundantly clearly.

After the door shuts behind Gilbert, Francis crawls underneath the covers and tries not to think of the two looming conversations he is going to have in the near-future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ehehe i could not be stopped in adding a dash of my boys being soft >:3


	6. VI

Francis has to admit there are worse moments to have a conversation with Lovino. Sure, there are an infinite amount of better moments, but Francis takes what he can get at this point.

The light orb he has conjured flickers, painting shadows on Lovino’s face, making him appear older than he is. There’s a deep cut, only partially healed to stem the bleeding, on his cheek and his leg is badly broken.

The floor had given out from underneath them, rocks partially crushing Lovino, trapping him and Francis far down into a temple.

Francis had done as much as he could after unearthing Lovino, but with his tome lost in the rubble, all he could call upon were his innate magic reserves. Lovino had initially refused for fear of Francis fainting from exertion. But the pain in which Lovino clearly was had eventually made them settle on a compromise: Francis would use magic to do some superficial healing and nerve numbing and Lovino would actually let him.

Now they sit, both staring at nothing in particular and wondering how to escape.

Well, Francis assumes Lovino is anyway, he himself is trying to both encourage and discourage himself from having that much-needed conversation with Lovino.

Lovino makes the choice for him.

“Stop staring and say whatever’s on your mind already,” he says, exhausted.

Francis lowers his eyes quickly and clears his throat. “What makes you think I’ve got something to say?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Lovino begins flippantly. “Maybe the whole thing about having a ‘talk’ sometime?” Lovino scoffs, though it lacks its usual derision. “You must have something to say about the whole debacle with Feli.”

“He’s sixteen,” Francis blurts.

Lovino sighs and rubs his face tiredly. “Yes. He’s told me he told you.”

“And you didn’t bother to bring it up with me?”

“I figured you’d do it yourself eventually. Party leader and all.” Lovino smiles wryly. “Believe me when I say I’d much rather have him somewhere safe and sound, doing normal teenage things.”

“I do.” Francis wrings his hands. “He’s told me you’re hired.”

Lovino purses his lips, shifting slightly, not quite in discomfort, but clearly antsy. His leg and makeshift splint prevent him from moving however, and he glances up at the ceiling, as if willing it to crumble on top of them to evade the uncomfortable conversation topic.

When the silence becomes strained, Francis says, dejected, “You’re not denying it.”

“Do you want me to?” Lovino’s voice is carefully detached.

“A part of me does. Of course,” Francis admits. “A part of me really does like to see the good in people.”

Lovino frowns. “You have a funny way of showing that.”

“I know. I apologize.”

Lovino stares at him, confused. He opens his mouth, scowls, and closes it again. He chews on his words for a while before spitting out, “Why the hell are you apologizing to me?”

“Because I’ve been unfairly judgemental toward you, blinded by my own feelings for Arthur to see you’re just as much running away as he is.”

Lovino’s fingers twitch, as if he really wishes to stand and pace, but instead settles for staring aggressively at the light orb. He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. “If this is you playing the victim—”

“I’m not.” Francis sighs. “I’m being genuine. When I left home, I vowed not to become like my parents: stuck up and judgemental. But… I suppose I haven’t been trying enough. I really am sorry for that.”

For a while, Lovino says nothing at all. Yet, Francis can feel him building up to something, so he keeps his silence. Then, eventually, Lovino says, curtly yet honestly, “You were in your right. Somewhat. I’ve never made it easy on you, I admit that. But Feliciano did not deserve to be roped into whatever judgement you have against me.” He breathes deeply. “Yes, I’m hired. But know that I have no intention of fulfilling that contract. I apologize for my antagonism. I thought that by keeping our distance, I could protect Feliciano from harm, but it only worked against us. I realize that now.”

“Thank you,” Francis says. The sheer admittance is an intense relief, and Francis can feel most of his worries concerning Lovino slide off his shoulders. “I guess we both become so concerned with the people we care for, we’re blind to what’s right in front of us.”

“That’s a poetic way to put it,” Lovino says dryly, but his shoulders no longer reach his ears. He’s relaxed a little, clearly having been worried too.

Francis chuckles and, feeling brave, pats Lovino’s good knee. Lovino looks remarkably unimpressed by the gesture.

“Honestly,” Francis says thoughtfully, “you chose the right party to run away to.”

“Oh?”

Francis hums. “We’re a whole party of runaways. Me and Arthur from home. Kiku from his country. Gilbert and Ludwig from the military… I don’t actually know what Antonio’s running from, but I know he is. He occasionally gets this _look_ in his eyes.”

“Gil’s told me,” Lovino says quietly. “He’s under the impression this all is a rather functional dysfunctional family.”

Francis can imagine him saying it too and briefly wonders when the two of them talk about mundane things, but shakes the image quickly. It’s none of his business, really.

“Well,” he says, “I suppose he’s right. Somewhat.”

Francis knows he cares a lot about all of them by now, bonding through strife and adventure and falling into pits of doom. He’s cared about Lovino’s wellbeing for a while too because, above and beyond, Francis is still the party leader. It’s his job description. That and being the resident healer as well. He really rather likes his party members—his friends—to be in their best health at all times.

Clearing the air with Lovino might not have immediately solved the problem, and there’s a lot to discuss still, but it has made talking with Lovino so much easier.

Lovino fidgets in a manner very similar to Feliciano, or perhaps the younger picked it up from the older, twisting his fingers into the fabric of his ruined tunic. “I know it’s hardly my place to ask, but, um, is there a plan?”

The falter throws Francis off. Lovino is a person who speaks his mind, bluntly and concisely, so it is strange to hear him voice his thoughts hesitantly.

“A plan? As in how to get out of here? I’m quite blank on that, I’m afraid.”

Lovino makes a noise. “Yeah, same. But no. More as in, well, toward everything? Is there a larger goal you, or this party, is working toward?”

Francis puffs out a breath, scratching his beard. “Something beyond just staying alive? Not particularly. Preferably earn some money, eat some food, rest somewhere nice.”

Lovino nods. “Fair enough.” He rests his head on his hand as he asks softly, “Do you really want to adventure till you die?”

“Well, no.” But Francis tries to stay in the present, afraid to dream of a brighter, steadier future. “It’s rather complicated.”

“I see.”

The dirt shifts above them, pebbles dropping to the ground ominously. They glance up, but the rumbling stops, no obvious shifts that could have been dangerous to them.

“Can I ask for a favour?” Lovino asks.

“If this is a message for after you die, I refuse to hear it until you’re actually croaking on the floor.”

Lovino laughs, startling both himself and Francis.

“No,” he says, a little awkwardly. “I’d rather not die before Feliciano can even look after himself. No, I mean as in my contract. It can be bought off.”

“I’m not paying that man a single gold piece,” Francis says coldly.

Lovino doesn’t react in any discernible manner to Francis knowing his contractor. Instead, he says, “It’s not money he wants, really.”

Francis frowns. “We can’t, Lovino. I’d really rather continue to adopt or fight off mercenaries than give that man even a shred of what he wants.”

“What _does_ he want?” Lovino raises his hands in an placating gesture as Francis gives him a foul look. “Listen. I just know who to, ah, eliminate. Not the reason.”

“Who knows why that man does anything. I knew he hated his son, but to go this far.” Francis shakes his head, disgusted.

Lovino becomes very still. He stares at Francis for a very long moment. “It’s not Arthur he wants dead, Francis.” His voice is chillingly sober.

It’s not surprising. Francis had always clashed with whatever expectations Arthur’s father had for his son. From being a man, to being from a family so insignificant in that man’s eyes Francis might as well have been peasantry to him, to being the very reason Arthur had left and is still away.

Francis deflates, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “Yes. I suppose that does make more sense.”

Lovino scoots a little closer, though it must have hurt, and he pats Francis’ leg amicably. “For what it’s worth, I don’t really want you dead. And there is a way to unbind the contract and get that man off your back.”

“And it involves Arthur, of course.”

“It’s his dad.” Lovino shrugs. “You need to let him face responsibility, Francis. For your safety and your feelings.”

Francis is well aware. Something has to happen, one way or another. But, hell, if it doesn’t scare him.

The ceiling crumbles then, a minor rush of rocks collapsing to their left, revealing a spot of light. They can hear the faint noise of discussion and argument, sounding vaguely, yet most certainly, like the remainder of their party.

“Well, I suppose our rescue is here.” Francis smiles, forcing his anxiety down.

Lovino seems reluctant to let the subject die just yet, but then he smiles too, if a little strained. “Do you think they’ll manage without burying us further?”

Thankfully, they do. Gilbert comes down a rope and, after arguing with Lovino for a short moment, carries him as the others pull the duo up. Francis is helped by Antonio, grateful to have someone to lean on as well, feeling the exhaustion set in.

They abandon the mission to give both of them the treatment and rest they need, arranging a deal with an inn.

Lovino is in a poor temper during his three-day confinement to the bed, but, when Francis visits him alone on the third day to continue their conversation on breaking the contract, Lovino hands him a heavy coin purse.

“To replace your tome,” Lovino says. “Our party is rather fucked without our party leader there to have our backs.”

Francis immediately attempts to return it after feeling the weight of the gold. “I can’t. I won’t.”

“Francis—”

“No. I have ties with a magical college; they should be able to present me one. They still owe me a favour.” He pushes the money back into Lovino’s hands. “Save this for you. For Feliciano. Don’t waste it on me.”

Lovino scowls, but takes Francis refusal for what it is, tossing the purse into his bag. “I _really_ don’t understand you.”

“Is that good or bad?”

Lovino shrugs. “It just means that I can’t read you, which is… new. As a mercenary you learn to read people and make quick decisions on whether they will actually pay up when you complete their contract. I can read everyone in this party except for you.”

“I feel I should be flattered,” Francis says laughingly.

“Perhaps.” Lovino glances toward the door, then gestures for Francis to lean closer, whispering, “Gil’s so predictable. He’s waiting for you to get lost right outside the door.”

Francis blinks. “He is?” As he reaches into his magic, he can, indeed, feel Gilbert jittering in front of the door.

“Yup. He’s been meaning to ‘talk’ with me also.” Lovino rolls his eyes. “He’s so easy to read, but he normally isn’t as blind as he is being toward me.”

Francis takes a moment to read Lovino and chuckles. “You really like him, don’t you?”

“The only person who doesn’t realize it is that man,” Lovino scoffs, gesturing listlessly. “I know I’m atrocious when it comes to emotions like that, but when you tell a guy you think his ass looks good when he’s beheading a monster I feel the message is clear.”

Francis hides a snort of laughter behind his hand. “Have you tried saying ‘I love you’?”

“Are you nuts? Have you ever tried it? Awful experience.”

Francis’ smile falters a little. “I have. Once.”

Lovino softens and places a hand on Francis’ shoulder, squeezing. “I’m sorry.”

Francis appreciates it, for the first time realizing that Lovino is very much his elder and very much an older brother, especially as Lovino’s hand moves to pat Francis’ cheek and Lovino tilts his face to make him look at him.

“You’re worth more than you think, Francis,” Lovino says sternly. “You have no idea how much you mean to people. Even to Arthur. Don’t be as much of an idiot as him.”

Francis couldn’t help the chuckle that broke past his lips, lowering his eyes as he sniffs. “Thank you. I’ll try, but it’s complicated. It’s difficult to talk with him.”

“You’ll figure something out. I’m sure.”

“How can you say?”

“Experience.” Lovino smiles. It makes him look as youthful as Feliciano. “You’re a good person, Francis. You’ll talk to him.” He sobers a little, poking Francis in the chest. “Honestly, if I have to deal with your pining much longer, _I_ _’ll_ have a talk with him. And it won’t be considerate in any sort of way.”

“Right, right. Duly noted.” Francis surrenders laughingly. “I’ll get to it. Just give me a little more time.”

Lovino rolls his eyes, but drops the topic as a shy knock comes from the door. He shares a glance with Francis, giving him a moment to compose himself before grumbling something.

Gilbert pokes his head around the door, face caught between curiosity and a smile as his eyes dart between Lovino and Francis.

Francis decides to leave them alone after exchanging another series of expression with Lovino, hopefully conveying something of “you better do too” before clasping Lovino’s shoulder as a thank-you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe not as dramatic a confrontation as people might have expected, but i like my lovi a little more mature and a lot more like an older brother to anyone he cares about 😩


	7. VII

“Sit still,” Francis says, brushing his thumb over the swelling underneath Arthur’s eye.

Arthur winces, breathing in sharply. His fists are clenched tightly, knuckles white, and his eyes are closed as Francis performs his magic.

Half of the injuries are from the last dungeon; the other half are from the brawl that finally broke out between Arthur and Antonio. Francis has already healed most of Antonio, the war monk currently losing further steam with Gilbert and Lovino, of all people.

“You just had to egg him on,” Francis scolds.

“He threw the first punch,” Arthur says defensively.

“Don’t be childish.”

Arthur grumbles, opening his good eye to glare at Francis. “Really?”

Francis sighs. “Yes. Really. We’re not children anymore. Our actions have consequences.”

“Tell Antonio that.”

“I have.” Francis drops his hand. “Don’t think that just because of our… former association you’ll receive special treatment, positively or negatively.

Arthur keeps his mouth shut as Francis resumes fixing the damage done with gentle fingers. Francis feels a little bad for snapping at him, but it’s not as if it’s undeserved. Somehow, Arthur always puts himself apart from the others. Not because he necessarily thinks himself better than them or something similar to that, but because he feels he simply can’t belong.

Whatever strife Arthur and Antonio have goes deeper than Francis probably knows, but he’s unsure of how to ask about it. However, the fight with Antonio seems to have already slid off of Arthur’s shoulders, and he seems to have shrunken a little.

Eventually, he asks, ever so softly, “Former?”

Francis’ fingers stutter over the bruise on Arthur’s cheek. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” Arthur grabs Francis’ hand as it retreats. “No, I’m serious, Francis. Do I?”

Francis purses his lips, letting his fingers lie limply in Arthur’s strong, nigh-desperate grip. “You can take your pick. Our childhood, our parents, our status, our relationship—”

Arthur flinches. “It wasn’t—”

“Only because you freaked out when I told you I loved you.”

Francis almost wishes he hadn’t said that out loud. The way in which Arthur recoils, as if the mere words burn like a fire spell, still hurts as much as it did then.

“I don’t want to fight about this any longer,” he says after a heavy silence, having collected his courage. “I’m so tired of this… whatever this is between us, Arthur.”

Arthur still holds Francis’ hand, but it's more gentle now, a little regretfully. “I… I don't want to either.”

“Then what do you want?” Francis can’t help but ask, defeated.

Arthur drops his gaze. “I don’t know.”

Francis sighs, but resumes his healing magic with his free hand, allowing Arthur to continue to hold the other.

There is so much he should be saying. But the words aren't there. His throat doesn't want to form them.

When he's done, he allows his fingers to linger for a second longer, and Arthur meets his gaze, searches it, but Francis steps back and Arthur allows his hand back, wringing his own together.

“I'll go check up on the others,” Francis says quietly.

Arthur nods demurely. He looks as if he has something more to say, but Francis needs space, and Arthur seems aware of it, instead swallowing his words and giving him a very small smile.

Closing the door behind himself, Francis takes a very, very deep breath, slumping against the door as he tries to collect himself.

He knows this isn't a solution. They haven't resolved anything. But he's said what's on his mind at the very least.

Lovino intercepts him, catching Francis by surprise as the mercenary wraps his arm around Francis’ and gently pulls him toward the inn’s exit.

“Did something happen? Is Antonio all right?” Francis asks.

“No, nothing happened. Yes, Antonio is fine. Him and Gil are getting drunk together.” Lovino gives Francis a long look. “But something happened with you, so we’re taking a walk.”

“Lovino…”

“I said walk, not talk. You don’t have to say shit, but I’m not going to let you sulk alone.”

Francis sighs, but allows Lovino to lead him around town, to the outskirts of the gate, carefully scanning their surroundings as they walk along the forest border.

It's nice, despite the mildly awkward atmosphere between them. It's mostly because Francis thinks he should be talking, but whenever he attempts, the words stick in his throat.

After Francis’ umpteenth attempt, Lovino sighs and grabs his arm to halt him.

“Francis,” he says, not really scolding, but very nearly so. “Do you want to talk? And not because you feel like you should, for some reason, but because you actually want to?”

“I honestly don't know,” Francis answers meekly. “I’m just… I just don’t know what to do.”

Lovino frowns. “What did Arthur do this time?”

“Nothing.” Francis rubs his face tiredly. “I think that’s the issue.”

“Well, what are you hoping he’d do then?”

Francis doesn’t know that either. Part of him wants an apology. Part of him wants to tell Arthur exactly where to shove it. But another—stupid, so incredibly _stupid_ —part of him wants to love Arthur, still, and for Arthur to love him back.

Lovino’s expression catches somewhere between pity and understanding, but he doesn’t ask further. They amble back to the inn and Francis heads to bed early, refusing Lovino’s offer for an alcoholic distraction (accompanied with a grimace at the thought of the drunken duo he’s going to encounter).

He’s at a standstill, he knows. Something has to give, one way or another, because he doesn’t know how to go on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another thing i really love is a good framano friendship,,,, just gotta love the big brothers of europe being big brothers together 😔🙏
> 
> also not to hype but next chapter,,,,, hoh boy, shit's finally hitting the fan ;p


	8. VIII

The next dungeon leads them higher and higher up a tower that oversees an endless ocean on one side and endless woods on the other. They had only come there to complete a fetch quest, something that had been lost by another adventurer on the sixth floor. But when they had fought their way to the sixth floor and searched every corner, they found nothing like the adventurer’s travel pack.

“I don’t trust this,” Ludwig says as he slices through another monster. “They’re driving us toward the stairs.”

They’re indeed cornered in the room that houses the stairs to the next floor, monsters pouring in through the grand double doors, the only exit of the room.

“Just keep fighting,” Gilbert replies.

“Cause we were going to stop,” Lovino mutters from next to Francis, who cracks a small smile at Lovino’s irritation.

“Maybe we should go up,” Antonio suggests. “We searched this floor top to bottom with nothing to show.”

“And do _what_?” Arthur asks. He follows up after the arc of Antonio’s axe with his sword, finishing off the monsters he had missed.

“I think it’s the best course of action.” Kiku releases a rain of arrows on the group of monsters separating Feliciano and him from everyone else. “We can regroup and consider our options.”

Everyone turns to Francis, who snaps his fingers, lighting cracking through the air to give them some space. He nods and gestures for them to go ahead of himself. Feliciano is herded up the stairs first with Ludwig and Kiku. Lovino kicks Gilbert in the shins to go next, throwing a knife at an advancing elite. Antonio and Arthur follow next, though Arthur hesitates until Lovino gives him a shove too.

When it’s just the two of them, Lovino grabs Francis’ arm as he casts one last spell that shakes the floor, the staircase crumbling around them as they run up.

Exhausted, they reach the seventh floor, where they take a short break to replenish some health and stamina. Lovino continues to look at the staircase however, as if he expects something to follow them up. Francis wants to ask him what’s on his mind, but they’re forced to move again when a troll barges down the door and they’re scrambling into formation to take the mini boss out.

It’s hardly a tough fight and the experience is appreciated, but with the next set of stairs appearing after the troll falls dead, they’re left with a dilemma. They could either wipe out early now that they can no longer complete the contract and leave, losing most their loot and experience, or they can finish it to the top, which they estimate is about four to six floors above them.

In the end, considering the difficulty in itself isn’t that high,—they had just gotten unlucky with spawns on the last floor—they forge on.

They take their time now, finding loot and slaying monsters for experience. It’s mostly smooth sailing, with only some minor incidents that could easily be fixed with Francis’ magic.

Yet by floor ten, Lovino’s wariness has increased tenfold.

“Someone’s been following us,” Lovino mutters to Francis as they follow in the rear.

Kiku is with them as well and casts an eye around. “For how long?”

“I noticed during that monster house. Someone hiding in the shadow of the door when we started climbing the stairs.”

“And you believe they’ve been following us from the start?” Francis asks.

Lovino nods.

“You think it’s a trap?” Kiku asks. “Bandits?”

“I’m not sure,” Lovino says. He rolls his neck, an excuse to quickly glance around without being too suspicious. “Just… be wary.”

On floor eleven, they’re overrun by monsters again. But it’s strange and chaotic, with monsters walking into each other, even fighting each other. There’s so many of them, they’re inevitably split up, with shouted promises of taking care of each other and regrouping on the next floor.

Francis is with Antonio and Gilbert, which has always been a great combination of skills. Antonio would mow down a path for them to move through while Francis keeps a barrier set up around them and Gilbert finishes off what has survived Antonio.

They find the staircase tucked away in the corner of a wide open room, with doors in every wall. They don’t hesitate in climbing up, catching their breath on floor twelve, which appears to be the very top of the dungeon. No one else has made it yet, which unnerves Francis greatly.

“They’ll be fine,” Gilbert says, patting Francis’ shoulder. “Lud and Kiku can take a blow and Lovi bends over backwards for Feliciano’s sake.”

“And Arthur is too stubborn to die,” Antonio pipes up. “I should know; we’ve fought before.”

Francis gives him a tired look. “Your relationship with Arthur worries me too.”

Antonio shrugs. “Our families have this ancient rivalry going on, so Arthur and I continued it in school. We got into this huge fight during second year and I was expelled because Arthur’s dad has connections everywhere.”

“Wait. For real?” Gilbert takes a bite of bread, offering some to them as well. “Is that why you’re here?”

“Kinda.” Antonio looks faraway for a moment before resting his eyes on Francis. “You know, now that I think about it, I think the argument was more or less about you.”

Francis raises his eyebrows. “When was this?”

“About five years ago now. He really hasn’t changed that much since then.”

Francis frowns. That had been after Francis had left then, after his breakup with Arthur, if one could even call it that much. “How was it about me?”

Now, Antonio looks a little apologetic. “Hm, well, we were just jabbing at each other, with words at first. And I remember saying something along the lines of there being no one in the world who could love an ass like him, and if there ever was someone who did, they must have something wrong with them. And at the time, I hadn’t really thought about it because it was right along the line of usual insults. But, well, he got this incredibly strange expression on his face, something really fucked up, and he punched me.”

“Oh,” Francis says.

“I didn’t really mean it, of course,” Antonio hurries to say.

“No, I know.” Francis smiles quickly, but lowers his eyes to the ground just as quickly after. “It’s just… surprising, I suppose.”

“That he defended your honour?”

Francis snorts. “I wouldn’t call it that necessarily. It’s just that, well, with the way he blew up at the time, it’s surprising to find he did care, somewhat.”

“Arthur is head over heels in love with you,” Gilbert says, despite his mouth being stuffed. When both Antonio and Francis give him looks of disgust and confusion respectively, he clarifies, “Fucking hell, Francis. He looks like a damn lost puppy when you’re not in the room. And when you are, he knows exactly where to find you. It annoys the hell out of Lovino for sure.”

“Of course it does.” Francis sighs. “But I don’t think I can take your word for it.”

“He does have a point,” Antonio says.

“Yes, well, even if he’s… ‘in love’ with me, how am I meant to deal with that? He rejected me, rather cruelly too, I must add. I’m… I’m upset with him.”

“So, you want him to apologize?” Gilbert asks.

“I… Yes. First and foremost.”

“And then?”

“And then, I don’t know.”

“You kiss him,” Antonio supplies unhelpfully. “Even though I still kind of want to punch him, if you like him, you totally should kiss him.”

Francis gives him a look, and then rolls his eyes as Gilbert begins to make kissy noises like a preschooler. “We’ll see.”

Kiku and Ludwig appear then, looking as if they had just gone for a morning run. Gilbert tosses more bread at Ludwig while Kiku accepts the stamina potion Francis offers.

Francis has begun to fidget by the time Lovino and Feliciano climb up the stairs, the former leaning heavily on Feliciano. There’s panic in Feliciano’s eyes as Gilbert hurries to take Lovino’s weight off of him, and Francis has to sit their youngest member down first with a calming spell before he can worry about the lack of Arthur.

“I’m so sorry,” Lovino says. “We got to the stairs and there was this… this…” He frowns.

“A feeling,” Feliciano says, lowering the flask of water from his lips. “Like a barrier, but strange and, um, directed?”

“Whatever it was, it messed up my head.” Lovino gratefully gulps down the health potion Kiku hands him. “They knew to go for Feli, so I would be distracted and they could just… take Arthur.”

“What do you mean they took him?” Gilbert asks.

Lovino gestures. “Took him. Dragged him off. Didn’t kill him. They just knocked him unconscious and _took_ him.”

“What? Monsters don’t do that.” Ludwig shook his head.

“Well, these did,” Feliciano says.

“So, what are we going to do?” Antonio asks.

Francis has no idea if he’s being honest. His mind is running circles as to where and why Arthur was taken and can only come to one conclusion. Before he can find the words to voice it, the ground shakes and rumbles, cracks appearing in the floor.

They make a run for the elaborate mahogany doors plated with brass, almost falling through as they swing open easily.

And then they’re face to face with a man, who flicks his wrist and causes the doors to close and lock behind them. Francis recognizes him immediately as Arthur’s older brother and father’s favourite son.

“Francis Bonnefoy,” Alistair says graciously and bows. “It’s been too long.”

“Where did you take Arthur?” Francis demands, standing straight and hoping to convey something intimidating. His party organizes themselves behind him.

Alistair clucks his tongue disapprovingly. “This adventuring certainly hasn’t improved your manners, Francis. Arthur is safe and going home.”

“Pretty sure he doesn’t see it that way.”

“Yes, Arthur is a stubborn git, but he’ll get over it.” Alistair smiles cruelly. “He got over you before.”

Francis scowls. “This isn’t about me. Arthur is allowed to make his own choices in life.”

“Yes. Yes.” Alistair rolls his eyes. “I’ve heard plenty about your little band of runaways.” He glances at Lovino, who sneers in return. “Don’t think you’ll be excused either. You do have a contractual obligation.”

“I’m not fulfilling shit. The contract states that Arthur has to be returned by any means possible. You took those means.” Lovino gestured widely. “For as far as I’m concerned, it’s void.”

Alistair hums, turning back to Francis. “Frankly, I’m of the opinion that for as long as you’re alive and Arthur has something to be disillusioned about, we have a little bit of a, well, problem.”

In that moment, a lot of things happen, most of which Francis misses.

Firstly, the wall to their right caves in and it’s Arthur, who looks a little haggard but otherwise more murderous than ever before as he glares at his brother.

Secondly, Francis is pushed back by both Lovino and Gilbert, stumbling as the room bursts into blinding light and crackling thunder.

Thirdly, monsters appear from everywhere, and Alistair ducks behind the pillars that decorate the room. Arthur advances on him, shouting angry words lost within the ruckus surrounding every corner of the room.

Finally, as Francis regains his bearings, puts up barriers around everyone he cares about and slowly advances toward the corner where Arthur and Alistair are fighting, he realizes he’s willing to cut a deal to assure everyone else’s safety. He also realizes Alistair would never honour it, not so long as Arthur has people to return to. It would be a meaningless sacrifice, so he begins to hurl spells at Alistair too, with Arthur ducking in at opportune moments to strike Alistair whenever his defences falter.

Yet, Alistair is a formidable opponent, just as Francis remembers, and he knows their weaknesses like no other. He manages to push Arthur back just as a group of monsters advance on Francis and his focus shifts. It creates a small gap between his defencive and offencive skills, a gap Alistair knows to abuse.

Francis feels the static in the air, the hairs on his arms standing on end, and from the corner of his eye he sees the burst of lightning. Belatedly, he raises his hand, knows there’s nothing he can do to stop it and closes his eyes.

Just as the lightning hits his hand and bursts through his arm toward his heart, something barrels into him. Yet before he even hits the ground, he loses consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:3c


	9. IX

When Francis wakes up, it takes him a moment to realize he’s still alive. He breathes deeply, in and out, relishing the fact that he still _could_.

The sheets are tucked tightly around him, softer and cozier than he’s used to. The mattress is equally soft and comfortable. When he slowly opens his eyes, he finds the room he lies in dark and empty. From what he can see of the ceiling, it’s white and elaborate, which ascertains that he’s not in some cheap village inn.

Where in the world is he? And what the hell had happened?

His brain feels too foggy to be normal, which makes figuring out those questions rather difficult as any struggle against the covers proves futile. It’s during those struggles he finds his right arm not responding as well as it should, and the dull ache in his chest intensifies.

The door opens with a creak and he turns his head to the sound. In the flickering light of an oil lamp, he finds Ludwig’s wide eyes, hair limp and unkempt against his forehead for once.

Ludwig puts the lamp on the bedside table and whispers, “Francis?”

Despite the feeling of cotton stuffed down his throat, Francis manages a rough, “Hi, Ludwig.”

Ludwig breathes a sigh of relief as he runs his hand through his hair. “Thank the gods. You have no idea—”

“Water, Ludwig.” Francis coughs and eagerly sips the cup Ludwig brings to his lips, though some slips down his chin as he can’t push himself up properly. When he tries to again, Ludwig presses gently against his chest and shakes his head, so Francis sags back into the mattress and asks what happened.

Ludwig’s lips thin. “Frankly, I don’t know the most of it. But you and Arthur were fighting that guy away from us, and there was that burst of lightning that caused your corner of the room to collapse, and, well, it were Antonio and Lovino that got to you and Arthur first, but you were both out cold, and there was no sign of the guy.”

“Both?”

“Arthur is still unconscious.” Ludwig fidgets. “We weren’t sure either of you would wake up. Especially Arthur. He took the brunt.”

“Oh.”

So it had been Arthur to push into him—to save his life.

“How… how long…?”

“It’s been two weeks.” Ludwig glances at his hands. “We’ve been taking turns watching you and Arthur.”

Two weeks is a long time to be unconscious, Francis knows. The chance of Arthur waking up is diminishing with every passing day. He has to do something about that. He’s a healer, after all.

But he can’t reach his magic, muddled by painkillers, and his brain is begging him for more sleep.

Ludwig watches his face carefully. “You need to rest more.”

“I need to heal Arthur,” Francis replies, but doesn’t attempt to move. He doesn’t think he can.

Ludwig appears to notice and smiles thinly. “A mage needs his rest or he won’t be able to do any healing at all.”

So Francis sighs and closes his eyes where sleep embraces him quickly.

***

The next morning he wakes to the smell of warm breakfast and the dulcet melody of Lovino and Gilbert arguing quietly at his bedside.

“Francis!” Gilbert says, a bit too loudly and he adjusts his volume accordingly when Francis winces. “Glad to see you conscious again.”

“Gilbert,” Lovino hisses.

“What? What’s our party without our dad?”

Lovino scoffs and steps in front of him, looking down at Francis almost apologetically. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I should be dead,” Francis replies.

Lovino snorts softly. “Yeah, I guess so.” His eyes glide down the blanket as if he knows exactly what wounds cover Francis’ body. When he meets Francis’ eyes again, they’ve gained a harder edge. “There’s something you should probably know now, but while Arthur is off much worse than you, you’re pretty awful yourself. You’re going to have one nasty scar down your chest and you’ve probably lost most function of your right arm alongside two fingers.” Lovino’s voice softens. “I’m really sorry.”

Francis breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, very slowly and deliberately. When those words have nestled themselves firmly in his ribcage, he asks, “And Arthur?”

Lovino and Gilbert share a look before Lovino hesitantly says, “A wound from his cheek to his thigh, if he’s lucky he’ll only have a small limp. We also had to, um, amputate his left arm to the elbow.”

Francis closes his eyes. “And he hasn’t woken up yet.”

“And he hasn’t woken up yet,” Lovino echoes softly.

“Is there anything I can do?” Francis asks imploringly. “Take me off those painkillers and I can… I can—”

“Francis,” Gilbert interjects gently. “Antonio’s a war monk. He knows how to heal too, perhaps not as well as you, but he’s already done everything he can. Kiku too. We can only wait.”

They sit quietly for a while. Francis lets the information sink in and attempts to flex his hand. It still feels as if all his fingers are there, but then again, he’s heard plenty of ghost feeling in amputated limps from people he has treated at the College. A few fingers is nothing to what Arthur will be feeling when… if he wakes up.

Which reminds Francis—

“What happened to Alistair?”

Lovino’s expression darkens while Gilbert looks downright murderous.

“Fucker tried to finish the job,” Lovino says, but then he gives Francis a rather strange look. “Except then he didn’t. He just stood there for a moment, saw me and Toni come up, and made a run for it. I would’ve gone after him if the two of you dying on the floor hadn’t been a more pressing matter.”

“I’m glad,” Francis says dryly.

“I do wonder what stopped him though,” Gilbert says thoughtfully. He looks at Francis curiously. “But you know the guy.”

“Only because he’s Arthur’s brother.” Francis sighs. “Alistair has always been strange.”

“Runs in the family,” Lovino mumbles and glares when Gilbert elbows him. “So long as he doesn’t come back.”

Francis is too tired to even entertain that thought, but he’s also starving, so he allows Gilbert to spoon him some stew and all too gladly slips back into sleep when Lovino tells him to.

***

It takes five days before Francis can even sit up in bed. He’s on lighter painkillers, which give him some access to his magic, but it’s still a tiny ember as opposed to the flame it normally is. He tries to flex the three remaining fingers on his right hand, but his strength is still faint and a few twitches is all he can manage.

Everyone had passed by his room already, either to watch him during the night, feed him some soup or just to talk with him. Kiku had spoken quietly with him about his prognosis and the future, but a lot of it is still uncertain considering Francis still can’t keep down a full meal. Antonio had mostly joked and talked and distracted Francis. Feliciano had burst into tears when Francis had smiled at him.

Yet, he wants to see Arthur. Just hearing everyone’s assurance he’s still alive isn’t enough; he needs to see him.

So, on the sixth day, Gilbert procures a wheelchair from somewhere and he and Antonio lift Francis into the cushions carefully. They wheel him to Arthur’s room and park him next to the bed.

The first thing Francis notices is just how pale Arthur is, the white bandage on his cheek almost blending in with his pallid skin. He’s gaunt too, with sunken cheeks.

For all intends and purposes, he looks dead, the only indication of life there being the slow rise and fall of his chest and that spark, now barely a glint, that Francis normally feels in him.

The furs are pulled up to his neck, so Francis reaches out with his good hand to feel Arthur’s cold cheek. Despite Lovino and Kiku’s warnings, he still attempts to drag some magic up from under the painkillers, but it sputters and dies before it leaves his fingers.

“How long do you think he still has?” Francis asks, dropping his hand in his lap.

Antonio lets out a deep breath and scratches the back of his head. “Hard to say. Kiku and I can keep him here, but we probably have to reconsider his chances of recovery soon.”

“Unless he wakes up.”

Antonio opens and closes his mouth. “Francis…”

“No, I know.” Francis picks at the bandages on his bad hand, then glances at Arthur again. “I know, but I’d like to be a little optimistic, even if it’s pointless to be.”

They refuse to leave him alone with Arthur that day, but over the next few days, when they find that Francis’ strength is building and he can walk from one end of the room to the other without falling, they eventually allow him to visit Arthur alone.

It’s two weeks after Francis wakes up, on the eve Kiku and Antonio had decided to stop their magical intervention on Arthur’s life force, that Antonio comes stumbling down the stairs to where Lovino is keeping Francis distracted and says, “He’s conscious. Somewhat.”

“What?” Francis is already halfway out of his seat before Lovino manages to catch his arm, stopping him from taking off.

Antonio wrings his hands. “He’s, um, awake, but not very coherent. He’s feverish and mumbles nonsensically, but he’s not dying.”

“I should—”

“Calm down,” Lovino interjects. “You’re not going to be of any help to a feverish man.“

A part of Francis wants to argue, but a larger part of him knows that Lovino is right and he sits back down.

“You’re right. Thank you for telling me, Antonio.” Francis smiles, though he feels it’s a little weighted down.

When Antonio skitters back up the stairs, Francis stares into his jug of fruit juice (as alcohol mixes badly with the painkillers) until Lovino places his hand on his arm to catch his attention again.

“He’s awake,” Lovino says, giving a small smile.

Francis breathes shakily and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he returns a small smile. “He’s alive. He’ll be alive.”

***

When Arthur’s fever breaks not two days later, Francis is finally allowed to go see him. Not only because he so desperately needs to talk with Arthur about what had happened, but also because Arthur has been asking for him, repeatedly.

Lovino walks him to the door, squeezing his shoulder before leaving.

Francis can feel Arthur’s little spark as he stands in front of the door, hesitant to knock still, but he gathers his courage and raps his knuckles against the wood quickly, opening the door after.

Since Arthur’s wounds have mostly healed over the span of his coma, he is propped up against his pillows, and his eyes immediately focus on Francis.

“Francis?” His voice is hoarse of disuse, but it’s Arthur and he’s speaking and he’s _alive_.

Francis sits down on the stool left at Arthur’s bedside and takes Arthur’s hand, his only hand, in his own. His eyes stray to Arthur’s bandaged elbow and he squeezes Arthur’s hand, breathing out softly when Arthur returns a weak one of his own.

“Hey, Arthur.” Francis smiles when Arthur looks at him a little owlishly. “I’m glad to see you’re finally with us again.”

Arthur’s eyes lower momentarily before fixing on Francis’ again. “I’m just relieved you’re alive. If you hadn’t…” Arthur shakes his head.

“Thank you for that, by the way. For saving my life.” Francis chews on his question for a moment before simply asking, “Why?”

Arthur smiles weakly. “Because I care about you.”

Francis opens his mouth, but Arthur squeezes his hand again, shaking his head.

“No, let me say this.” Arthur shifts a little, sitting up a little straighter. “I want to apologize, properly, because I never have.”

He looks so earnest that Francis gestures for him to continue, not knowing what to say.

Arthur stares at their hands for a moment. “I’m sorry.” He looks at Francis and repeats, “I’m so, so sorry. I have been unfair toward you. And to myself as well. I was terrified, then, because I thought we could never be together so it’d be better to destroy any chance of that happening in a poor attempt to protect you. I should’ve talked to you about it, I realize that, but, well.” He chuckles humorlessly. “I’m not really good at communicating.”

Francis snorts. “You aren’t.”

Arthur’s smile turns a little more genuine. “And I’m sorry for running away, and pretending everything was fine between us, and for abusing your kindness.” He sighs. “You’re so selfless, Francis. It’s something I admire about you.”

Frowning, Francis says, “I’m not—”

“Francis. You have literally adopted a group of outcasts, including a mercenary that was after your life, just because they needed a place to be wanted. You allowed _me_ , the guy who treated you like dirt, to tag along.”

“I fear that was a little selfish on my part though,” Francis says softly.

“Perhaps.” Arthur looks at their hands sadly. “But you’re tired of this now.”

“Of the tension between us, yes,” Francis admits.

“I’m sorry for that too.”

“So am I.” Francis smiles. “I was upset with you, but I didn’t know how to voice this, so I ran away a little too.”

Arthur chuckles. “That should be our party name: The Runaways.”

“I don’t think guilds would be thrilled with such a title.”

“Ah, right.” Arthur thinks for a moment. “The Group That Runs Away, but Never from Fights.”

Francis snorts. “Wordy.”

“Hm. Francis Is a Critic, but He Knows How to Use a Tome, so Please Hire Us.”

“A little on the nose, don’t you think?”

It is good to see Arthur grin so openly—so boyishly. Francis has missed that smile.

He still wants to kiss that smile.

But he doesn’t. Because now is neither the time nor place.

“Hey, Francis.” The smile has slipped from Arthur’s face and has been replaced by something more hesitant, something incredibly careful. “I know this might be a long shot considering our history, but could we start over? And I don’t mean that we forget it all ever happened. I don’t want to forget those times anymore; they’re rather precious to me. But I mean, if you would, um—if you don’t totally dislike me—whether you and I could…” He shakes his head, and Francis knows that his free hand would have normally come up to rub the bridge of his nose, but with his only hand caught in Francis’ it never happens.

“Whether we could…?” Francis prompts because it’s important for Arthur to finish his thought.

Arthur looks at him, rather hopelessly, with a steady blush rising. “Whether you and I could try again, someday.”

Francis bites his lip and carefully asks, “Is that what you want?”

“Yes. I want to be with you. It… it still scares me a little, but I’ve found that losing you is much scarier.”

Francis squeezes his hand and ducks his head to hide his smile. “Now who’s the cheesy one.”

“You’re a bad influence.”

Francis peeks through his bangs. “I guess your father was right.”

Arthur pulls a face at that, if Francis has to describe it, catches somewhere between disgust and a vicious urge to throw up. “Don’t even, Francis.”

“According to Lovino, the contract is void,” Francis supplies. At Arthur’s confused frown, he continues, “You were to stay unharmed during any attempts on my life. Clearly, that didn’t happen.”

“Only cost an arm,” Arthur says dryly.

“I’m sorry about that.”

“I’m not.” Arthur holds his gaze until Francis shyly lowers his own.

They sit quietly for a little while. Francis absently strokes Arthur’s hand, trying to remember the last time the silence between himself and Arthur had been this peaceful. Certainly not since they had been slightly disillusioned teens.

When Arthur speaks up again, it’s very quietly. “Is it what you want?”

Francis meets those green eyes, so earnest in their intention, and still doesn’t know. “I think I need a little more time.”

Arthur nods slowly as he turns it over. “But it’s not a no.”

“It’s not.” Francis smiles and Arthur returns it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just the epilogue left!!!
> 
> EDIT: i just wanted to add a little note because of something a comment mentioned: i know that i could've spent a bit more time on physical recovery, but for the purpose of this fic, i felt it would not fit within the pacing..... there are types of fic that revolve around recovery because the injury is at the centre of those fics, but since the purpose of this fic is much more about emotional recovery, it didn't feel right to include that for arthur, even though he obviously has to go through the process of acceptance and adjustment. i apologize if this has offended anyone, but i do not believe that losing a limb has to be the end of a person's world all the time. yes, it's terrible. yes, it has major impacts on someone's life. but they're still people, and people don't lose limbs because it adds to the story. that's not how life works.  
> also, if youve read all the way here, hating it all the while and then blaming it on me somehow...... idk what to tell you dude, but you couldve closed out any time like any sane human being instead of shitting in my yard bc you "had to get it off your chest"........


	10. X: Epilogue

Their ragtag party always leaves any guild official puzzling. It’s not often a non-affiliated mage, a one-armed lord, a mysterious war monk, a horseless paladin, an albino knight, a disgraced archer, a much-too-young thief, and a former mercenary form a party, not only due to how unbalanced it is, but also because most of them should never even have interacted in the grand scheme of their usual places in the world.

Still, with Francis’ charms and Ludwig’s pragmatism, they get the jobs they want and receive the proper rewards for the ones they clear. Their income becomes a little more stable as word of their accomplishments spreads among guilds, but it’s still not much. It’s highly dubious they will ever receive an actual contract at a guild, but they can’t really bring themselves to care much. There is something much more liberating about travelling and exploring at their own pace, especially considering Francis and Arthur can’t perform like they used to, so taking things easy prevents them from overexerting themselves.

It, by no means, slows them down however. There was simply a period of adjustment, of explaining and compromising, before things settle back into a semblance of normality.

As uncomfortable as it had been to explain everything to everyone, from their past (or and abridged version thereof; they didn’t need to know all the details of Arthur and Francis’ relationship), to Arthur’s family, to whatever happened in the tower, it had been relieving as well.

Sure, there still is some tension in their group, mostly between Antonio and Arthur, but that seems to slowly turn from outright animosity to a rivalry, so it doesn’t put nearly as much stress on the remainder of the party.

Francis is simply glad that there are no more obstacles to deal with for a little while. There are no mercenary contracts to worry over or barriers between him and certain members of the party. Lovino’s contract had burnt itself during Francis’ coma and Arthur no longer put himself apart from everyone else, awkwardly mingling in conversation.

And it’s getting better between Arthur and Francis as well. They’re talking to each other more frequently, mostly about the present and the future, sometimes about the past. There’s still a lot they have to talk through, things that Francis wants to make sure are settled and clear between them so they hopefully won’t repeat the same mistakes as they had made then.

But they’ve gone through most of it now, falling back into old habits and lingering gazes Francis can’t help but feel giddy about.

“So,” Lovino begins, picking at the plate of food he and Francis had ordered as they wait for everyone else to finish their free time in town, “you and Arthur.”

“Me and Arthur,” Francis echoes, amused.

Lovino gives him one of those looks which Francis has come to understand as Lovino trying to figure out what a person is thinking. Lovino has a lot of those looks because he tends to leave more unsaid than he probably should.

“We’re working on things,” Francis says with a shrug.

“You’ve been saying that ever since we started communicating like normal people.” Lovino gestures with his hand vaguely. “What I’m really asking is whether you’re, you know.”

“I don’t think I do?”

“Willing to be in a relationship with him?”

Francis breathes out slowly, thoughtfully. “Maybe. I’m still… hesitant.”

“Why?”

“Just…” Francis sighs, thinking over his words as he eats. “So much has happened. And I just want to make sure Arthur understands how he hurt me.”

Lovino purses his lips. “It’s been months though.”

Francis looks away from those sharp, knowledgeable eyes, down toward the scar on his hand. “I guess I’m scared.”

Lovino doesn’t say anything for a while, tapping his fingers on the table. Francis continues to quietly nibble on the food.

Then, Lovino heaves a deep sigh and says, “Francis, look at me.”

When Francis does, he taps underneath Francis’ chin with a small smile. “Chin up, Francis. You have every right to be afraid—the gods know how terrifying relationships are—but don’t allow it to lead your life for you. Be proud, be you, and you’ll be fine. ”

Francis can’t help but snort. “Thank you, I suppose. I’ll try, Lovino.”

“Be a little selfish, Francis. Sometimes you’re allowed to be.” Lovino gives him a pointed look.

Francis shakes his head, wondering if Lovino has been talking with Arthur. “Honestly, sometimes, Lovino, I wonder whether you’re a brother or a dad.”

Lovino scoffs, flicking Francis’ nose. “You’re the dad. We established this already.”

They sit in silence for a moment until Francis quips, “Maybe you’re the granddad.”

Lovino shoots him an exasperated look and leaves after slamming back his glass of wine, muttering something unsavoury as he stalks out. He leaves a giggly Francis, who loses it completely when the door slams shut.

It’s been a while since he’s laughed quite as much, even if it’s hardly something to be laughing over so much.

“You seem to be having a good day,” Arthur says and Francis chokes, coughing and almost dropping his glass as he tries to grip it with his bad hand.

“Arthur,” Francis gasps when he can breathe again. “You startled me.”

Arthur fidgets sheepishly. “I noticed. I apologize. Do you want me to leave?”

“No, no.” Francis gestures to the seat Lovino had vacated. “Please, sit. Have something to eat. I teased Lovino away and I can’t finish all of this alone.”

Arthur does, sliding the plate a little closer so he doesn’t have to reach. Then, he looks at Francis curiously.

“So, what were you laughing about?”

“Ah, I just… called Lovino a granddad.”

Arthur snorts, covering it poorly with his hand. “Do I want to know why?”

“He was doing that thing that makes me feel like a little kid, but since I’m already the dad, it made him the granddad.”

Arthur chuckles, shaking his head. “Right, right. Did you ever think, when you were younger, that that’d be the role you’d fulfill in an adventure party? A dad?”

“Maybe in the traditional sense, like a dad dad. But, well, this is fine too. If Feliciano is anything like the typical teenager, I think I’ve had my fill of it.” Francis gestures for the waiter and he orders two beers.

“Mm, well, you never know,” Arthur says.

Francis leans forward curiously. “You want children?”

Arthur’s ears flush red and he stares at his mug of beer. “Perhaps. Someday. If…” He trails off, biting his lip.

Francis doesn’t have to ask what he means. Arthur only trails off when it’s about Francis and he knows that Francis knows.

Francis smiles gently, reaching out for Arthur’s hand. Arthur stares at where they lie on the table, then he gives Francis a dry look.

“Keeping me from drinking?”

“Naturally.”

Arthur squeezes his hand, coughs, and says, “I’ve been thinking about writing my father a letter.”

Francis’ stomach lurches, and Arthur must have read it in his expression because he hastens to add, “To tell him that I’m not returning home and that I wish to be disowned.”

“You think he’ll accept that?”

“Don’t know.” Arthur shrugged. “But I do think that Alistair isn’t going to return after what he did to me.” He looks at where his tunic is tied in a knot around the stump of his elbow. “And I don’t think my father wants a one-armed son anyway; people would ask too many questions. It doesn’t look good on the family’s reputation if people would discover that the heir to the Kirkland estate almost killed one of his siblings.”

“No, I guess it doesn’t.” Francis can feel his smile twitch at the corners. He still has trouble in seeing the humour in Arthur losing limbs for his sake, even though Arthur assures him all the time.

Now, too, Arthur releases Francis’ hand in favour of shakily trailing his fingers along his jaw instead. It’s the first time Arthur has touched him quite so intimately without explicitly asking to do so, and it’s probably because after the first few times, Francis had stopped refusing him.

“You know I don’t regret it, Francis,” Arthur says.

“You could’ve died,” Francis replies.

“And you would have.” Arthur drops his hand back on the table and Francis misses it instantly. “We can keep going in circles about this forever, but what happened happened. I lost my arm and I have a limp and I look rather haggard, but those are things I cannot change. I’d much rather work on thing I _can_.”

He draws his hand over Francis’, meeting his eyes resolutely. Then, he leans back a little and grabs his beer. He adds, “Hopefully, anyway,” before taking a sip.

Francis sighs. He picks at the food without eating. There’s so much he wants to say, but every word that bubbles to the surface dissipates like mist once it reaches his mouth.

Arthur has done so much in trying to repair what he had broken between them, from apologizing to communicating openly to carefully worming his way back into Francis’ heart with gentle touches and soft smiles. And Francis hasn’t really done anything to prevent it from happening. He encourages it. He wants it.

Yet, when it comes to accepting it all, to openly allow Arthur to have his heart again, he’s afraid.

“Maybe you’re right,” Francis says, and he knows it must come out of nowhere, but he needs to pick his way through his thoughts verbally. “Maybe I am a little bit too selfless.”

Arthur lowers the mug back to the table, but he doesn’t reach for Francis. He just observes him carefully.

“I want the people around me to be happy, but I’m hesitant to chase after my own happiness. It’s bit me once before, to want that.”

Arthur lowers his eyes.

“I’m hesitant,” Francis repeats, “but there are things in life I want. I might not be able to chase all of them, but… but there is one thing within reach. Something that I want, and have wanted for a long time. I’m just… terrified of baring my feelings again.” He breathes shakily, finding Arthur’s hand again.

Arthur catches on, eyes bright on Francis’. His voice is tinged with a sliver of hope. “What is it you want, Francis?”

Francis doesn’t think he can get his mouth to form the words, so instead he leans over the table and kisses Arthur. It’s a hesitant little peck, and Francis hovers over the table, feeling like the awkward teenager he once was. Then Arthur kisses him again, and it’s that same gentle back and forth between them.

When they break apart, they gaze at each other. Arthur is blushing, and Francis must be too considering how hot his face feels, but then Arthur smiles that fond little smile that’s for Francis alone and Francis can’t help but laugh, feeling all the tension evaporate from his body.

Arthur just continues to smile at him, his thumb brushing Francis’ wrist.

“I’ve missed your smile,” Arthur says once Francis’ laughter has subsided.

“I’ve missed you.” Francis cups Arthur’s cheek with his free hand. “I’ve missed this.”

“Me too,” Arthur sighs. “I’m really sorry about screwing it all up. I’ll do better this time. I want to love you properly”

Francis presses another kiss to his mouth, his chest feeling too small to contain his heart.

“You have no idea how much that means to me,” Francis says, a little breathlessly.

“I have an idea.” Arthur smiles and squeezes his hand.

They kiss again, because now that they’ve started it’s hard to stop again, and it’s familiar and warm. It’s a little like coming home, except it’s maybe a little old and needs some dedication and love to be restored, but it’s there.

Someone clears their throat and they sheepishly break apart. While Arthur hides his embarrassment in his drink, Francis coughs lightly and smiles up.

Ludwig awkwardly wrings his hands while Feliciano giggles. Kiku simply returns the smile.

“Sorry to be interrupting. We finished our shopping,” Kiku says.

“Yes, yes, of course.” Francis gestures for them to sit. “I’ll order more food and, um, what would you like to drink?”

He quickly leaves for the bar, needing to recompose himself a little. The barmaid winks at him as she takes his order.

When he returns, Antonio and Gilbert have appeared too, both grinning a little too wolfishly at him.

“So, the kissing worked, huh?” Antonio says, chewing on what’s left of the food plate.

Arthur frowns at Antonio, then looks questioningly at Francis as he slides into the chair next to him as Gilbert had taken his.

“More or less,” Francis answers. “If you guys want something to drink you have to order yourself.”

“I’ve stolen yours,” Gilbert says, already drinking from Francis’ mug while Ludwig scowls at him.

“I’m good,” Antonio says. “And I’m happy for you Francis.” He turns to Arthur. “I’ll break you if you hurt him.”

Arthur gives him a thin smile. “Of course.”

Francis wraps his hand around Arthur’s wrist, rubbing gently. “Thank you, Antonio. We’ll be fine.”

“Just saying.” Antonio shrugs.

Their table is laden with food and drinks by the time Lovino returns. His eyes fall on where Arthur’s hand now rests on Francis’.

He gives Francis a look. “I leave for, what, an hour?”

Francis laughs sheepishly. “Your wise old words inspired me.”

Lovino rolls his eyes, sliding into the chair Gilbert has pulled out for him. “Call me old again and I swear—”

“You are kinda old though,” Gilbert says as he puts his arm around Lovino while ignoring the murderous eyes turning on him. “Cute. But old.”

“You guys don’t even know how much of an old man Lovi is,” Feliciano pipes up.

Lovino turns on his little brother, pointing aggressively at him. “Keep going and you’re grounded.”

“See! Only old men try to ground teenagers.” Feliciano waves Ludwig’s arm around, something he has taken to doing and the paladin allows to happen to him with a small little blush. “Besides, since Francis is our dad, you don’t have any authority over me anymore.”

“You want to test that, you little brat?” Lovino hisses.

“Ah! Francis!”

“All right, how about we do a little toast?” Francis quickly interjects, ignoring the snickering going around the table.

“To what?” Arthur asks, amused, green eyes twinkling.

“To, uh…” Francis falters.

“To good tidings,” Kiku says.

“To good relationships,” Gilbert adds with a wink.

“To improving oneself,” Ludwig says.

“To learning new things,” Feliciano chirps excitedly.

“To trusting more openly,” Lovino says, squeezing Gilbert’s hand.

“To getting stronger,” Antonio vows.

“To doing better,” Arthur says, looking at Francis.

“And to a bright future,” Francis finishes, their mugs thunking together with a loud cheer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here we are!! the end of a long ride!! thank you so so much for reading all the way up to the end!!! so many thanks to everyone who left a comment and a kudo already as well, yall are the best!!!!! and if anyone else still wants to comment after reading it all, please do so!!!! let me know your thoughts!!!! they really make my day, even more so in the current circumstances!!!


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